Dream A Little Dream Of Me
by Val-Creative
Summary: They didn't have winter in deep, black-abyssal space. Keith can't say he misses something never even experienced before. /Post-Canon. Canon AU. Shklance. Oneshot.


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They didn't have winter in deep, black-abyssal space. (Not counting the planet of Nix they visited before Sendak's invasion of their home-world and his demise. Allura told them Nix had been coated in a million tons of ice crystals and diamonds, and was remarkably inhabitable with no source of oxygen.)

Keith can't say he _misses_ something never even experienced before.

As soon as they've returned to Earth for good, Keith decides to get a cabin with his boyfriends. In a little, quiet village down in the lowermost valley of a remote, gigantic mountain. For most days of the year, the cliffs and slopes and highest elevations of peaks are a fresh, bright and powdery white. Even if the lake gleams with the heat of the sun and the grass remains untouched by frost.

(Not this year.)

By nightfall, Keith drags himself out of the freezing cold, evading the rich, dark blue of the skies above. His teeth chitters. Keith's hair drips wet with melting flecks of crusty, glimmering snow. He yanks off his boots and two layers of puffy, waterproof jacket, shaking his bangs out of his face.

The scent of chili — roasted, garlic-soaked beef and pinto beans — wafts in through the empty, garland-decorated hallway. Warm cinnamon rolls. Hot chocolate and whipped cream. An oven-timer going off.

Keith thinks he hears a pair of voices raising and falling, echoing with hints of laughter. He's more _exhausted_ than anything and stumbles for the corner-nook of the front room's windows. The soft, dulled glow from the string-lights above cascade over the plum and lavender, ornate pillows Keith flop and sink against. He pushes his hands over his face, massaging his eyelids and grunting, mentally calculating how _long_ it took him to shovel the driveway. Had to be at least a whole varga and a half.

One of the book from their library lies out. Keith skims it briefly, remembering the tale vaguely.

His hands and every aching, burning muscle suddenly feels too-heavy. Keith slumps further backwards against the pillows, silently wondering about nodding off. Dinner probably won't be… _until_ …

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A slow, steady rocking is what jars Keith awake.

He snorts lightly, dismayed, finding himself within the confines of an elegant, rosewood horse-driven carriage. On all sides of him. Keith looks around with growing, irritable bemusement, pushing experimentally on a multicolored, _sweet_ -smelling window resembling a cathedral's stain-glass.

The carriage abruptly halts, nearly throwing Keith forward. He braces himself with both of Keith's hands flying out, and listens to the sounds of gunfire and people screaming out in rage.

Juggling the door-handle, Keith opens it, crawling out into the middle of an ongoing _battle_.

Soldiers made of gingerbread raise their white-and-red peppermint spears, yelling, thrusting in unison and propelling their weapons in the direction of their enemies swarming from below. Clockwork mice do not flinch as the spears hit them, knocking a few over and impaling their visibly silver-gleaming gears. They scurry up the icy-crag, shrieking horrifically and taking the time to fire their miniature rifles.

One of the neon-blue, sprinkle bullets pierces into a gingerbread soldier beside Keith, crumbling its left side.

Keith staggers back, caught into warm, living arms. A man around Keith's age, with light brown skin and dressed like the freakin' _Nutcracker_ , pulls them out of harm's way.

"Lance?" Keith shouts out over the deafening roar of combat, brows furrowing.

One of his boyfriends wears a soldier's uniform identical to the other soldiers — except it's real as real can be and not made of buttercream frosting. A scarlet, velvet dress-coat over a white button-up and cravat and teal-dyed pants along with matching arm-cuffs. Polished, brass lanyards and ropes of braids and lampasses drape over Lance's chest and the tops of his broad shoulders.

"You have to go," Lance tells him sternly, pressing his forehead against Keith and lovingly holding his face. Keith wants to ask _why_ , clutching onto Lance's wrists and getting shoved away. "Go now!"

He watches in apprehension as Lance whips around, kicking into the armored underbelly of a mouse and stealing a rapier from its hip-sheath. Keith moves, deftly spinning as one of the clockwork mice, with plum-violet eyes shining, leaps for him, grabbing its paw and breaking apart the length of its arm.

That's when the mice's king makes its entrance, with shaggy fur and beady, yellow eyes.

Like his subjects, he is adorned with old-fashioned rags, pirouetting and cutting down soldiers as Lance comes running at him, his blue eyes _fierce_ with hatred, shouting at the top of his lungs.

" _No_!" Keith's voice rips out of him, completely unprompted. He dashes up the ice-slick, opaque platform, wedging himself between Lance and the mice's supposed king. "No, don't—!"

Keith glances to another set of plum-violet eyes, reaching out bravely and removing the head-mask. As soon as he does, the clockwork mice all drop dead, frozen in place and shuddering and emitting a dark, noxious gas. Lance covers up his nose and mouth, gasping, staring in awe.

An older man, with cropped, black hair and a nasal-scar, touches over Keith's upper arms, his eyes widening and clearing from their hypnotic-trance. "You saved me," Shiro murmurs, fondly smiling.

"… Always," Keith breathes out, grinning and hugging his other boyfriend tightly.

Lance _hollers_ joyfully, smacking a open-mouthed, hot kiss to Shiro's lips and hugging him as well. "My king," he declares wholeheartedly, gently kissing him again as Shiro's hands run up Lance's back.

"My prince," Shiro answers him, feeling Keith's fingers cupping his nape.

Feeling… more fingers to _exist_ than necessary…

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Keith moans woozily and stirs on the pillows, squinting his bluish-purple eyes.

Lance's face doubles and then blurs above him. " _Think he's waking up,_ " he announces with obvious concern, removing his fuzzy, mint green slippers and kneeling down. "Keith?"

"Baby, I think you got a fever," Shiro whispers down to Keith still half-aware of what's going on, cradling his head with one palm. There's a scent like apple cider on his mouth. He nuzzles his face against Keith's own, tapping his lips over his perspiring, red-blotching cheek. "We've got you, okay?"

"…" Keith forces down a sleepy, complaining noise, clutching Lance's hand in his. " _Mmhm_."

That's all he needs to survive the winter.

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 _Voltron isn't mine. This is my first fic up since post-s8, post-series. Yeah. We're not gonna talk about that. ANYWOO I'M NOT A CHRISTMASY PERSON BUT I REALLY LOVE THE NUTCRACKER BALLET/SOUNDTRACK which doesn't count as Christmas guhh it's wintery and festive I'M GLAD I WAS MATCHED WITH SOMEONE WHO WANTED NON-CHRISTMASY STUFF. This was made for the **Winter Shklance Exchange** on Tumblr and my person I was assigned **aleesshu** from Tumblr and I hope you all love this too! I had fun with it! Any comments/thoughts would be so so appreciated! I hope my fellow Voltron fans are doing awesomeeeee!_


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